Looking up to the Egyptian major, Dixon yelled through his mask, "Okay, let's get him out of here." Standing up, the major signed for several of the men from the BRDM to come over and lend a hand. Dixon and three Egyptians gathered around Masterson, reached down and grabbed the first part of Masterson's body that was handy, and picked him up off the ground. Though not coordinated, they managed to carry him over to the BRDM and hoist him onto the back deck of the armored scout car. They made no effort to stuff Masterson into the BRDM. It would take too long to get him in and then out again once they reached the helicopter. Dixon also rode on the outside, hanging on to the small turret of the BRDM with one hand and Masterson with the other as the BRDM raced back to the waiting helicopter.
On the way back to the helicopter, with the immediate crisis over, Dixon began to consider his best course of action. His first thought was to send Masterson back while he remained on site and continued to check out the rockets. Dixon, however, rejected that. First, it was dark now. The last thing he wanted to do was stumble around in a contaminated area in the dark. Second, even if he did go back, what would he do? Other than find a puddle of chemical agent, test it, and verify that there was something there, nothing. Besides, as long as he had Masterson, dead or alive, Dixon had all the proof he needed that there was a chemical agent present. As cold as that thought was, it was fact.
With a decision made and nothing more to do but hang on and wait till they reached the helicopter, Dixon felt first a feeling of relief, then one of revulsion. Because he, Dixon, had insisted, Lieutenant Masterson had come on a trip that could very well cost him his life. Then, with the lieutenant hanging on to life by a thin thread, Dixon actually had debated his best course of action, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of each option as if he were doing a peacetime staff drill. Finally, he had opted to stay with Masterson only after he decided he could accomplish his mission by using the lieutenant, dead or alive, as evidence. Have I become that cold and cynical? Dixon thought. Or was it just force of habit, the result of years of training designed to overlook the gruesome aspects of war and consider the situation in cold, dispassionate terms?
A sudden stop jarred Dixon's thoughts back to the present.
But as Dixon watched the Egyptians load Masterson onto the MI-8 helicopter, another dark and cynical thought began to well up in his mind. What, he thought, if the Egyptians had staged this? What if the whole thing was a sham aimed at drawing the United States into the conflict on Egypt's side? Dixon had no proof that the chemical agent was Libyan or Egyptian. Even if he did carry a sample back, there was, he was sure, no way of proving anything. Dixon looked back toward the site from which they had come. How utterly horrible it would be, he thought, if the first American casualty of the war was the result of an elaborate deception plan by their "ally."
Standing across from the Nile Sheraton, Jan Fields faced the camera. A red-and-black scarf draped over her left shoulder and knotted on the right dressed up her light tan "war" outfit. Behind her, the lights of the city on the far bank and those on the boats passing along the Nile provided a serene backdrop. As soon as the red light of the camera flicked on, she began.
"The second day of the war between Egypt and Libya ended with both sides making claims of victory that are impossible, at this point, to verify. For their part, an official Egyptian press release spoke of steady advances by all columns moving into Libya and the gaining of air superiority of the Cyrenaica, or eastern desert of Libya. From Libya, government radio spoke of the ejection of all Egyptian forces from Libya and the shooting down of twelve Egyptian aircraft during a raid over Tobruk this morning.
"As to future operations, no one is commenting on that officially. That the Egyptian operation is of a limited nature is no longer questioned. Few reserve forces have been mobilized, and no major combat units have been withdrawn west of the Suez Canal. The atmosphere throughout Egypt is calm. Instead of war chants, there is the quiet air of confidence that all is going well, and will continue to do so, for the Egyptian military. What is certain from the capital here is that the war has not made any changes in the way of life. After yesterday's initial flurry of activity, it's business as usual here in Cairo. Even the American ambassador, in a late-aftemoon press conference, hinted that there would be little disruption in his schedule.
"If the Egyptians stop their advance in the next forty-eight hours, as rumors say, then the need to maintain an American military presence will become questionable. Neither the American ambassador nor Egyptian officials would comment on the possible role those American ground forces here have played or could play. Nor is the date for their withdrawal mentioned. The original date when all U.S. ground forces should have departed came and went without comment. According to one unofficial source here, as long as there is the possibility that there are Soviet or Cuban troops in Libya, the American brigade will remain in place, despite calls from Congress to bring them home. Regardless, American military personnel have been kept clear of any involvement in the Egyptian raid into Libya. According to a spokesman for the Egyptian president, there is no need for the Americans to concern themselves with, as he calls the raid, an 'internal matter.'
"From Cairo, this is Jan Fields for World News Network."
As the crew packed up its gear and prepared to leave, Jan turned and slowly walked along the sidewalk next to the river. A sudden chill caused her to pull the collar of her jacket up a little higher. Like many Americans, she had never associated cold with the desert until she spent her first winter there freezing in her light cotton outfits. She had eventually flown to England for a long weekend in November of that first year in order to shop for proper winter clothes. Looking out over the dark river and cold night brought Scott Dixon to mind. Where, she wondered, is he staying tonight? She knew he was out of Cairo— someplace, according to the sergeant to whom she had talked, in the Western Desert.
She wanted so much to talk to Scott, to see him, to touch him. Since sleeping with him, Jan had thought of little else. Even the war, far-removed and unreachable, came in a poor second. What had started as a chance encounter at the French embassy had slowly evolved into a quiet conversation about anything and everything, including the trouble between Scott and Fay. Before that night Jan secretly had been dying to hear Scott's side of the story out of simple curiosity. There was no doubt in her mind that Scott had been a real shit to Fay, keeping her apron strings tied to the stove. That was a foregone conclusion. Jan just wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth. But when she finally had the chance to do so, she found herself wavering in her preconceived convictions. Instead of Attila the Hun, she found a man who was confused, hurting from scars no one could see, and alone in a world rushing insanely to war.
What had caused her to dance with Scott that night still bewildered her. His invitation was spontaneous and her response unhesitating. Had it been a mindless act? Had it been kindness on her part, to ease some of Scott's pain? Or had it been love? That she even considered the idea of being in love with Scott, the husband of her closest colleague and best friend, bothered Jan. The flow of events that carried the two of them from the dance floor in the embassy to Jan's bed had been a slow, easy, seamless blur that reminded Jan of a dream. Whatever had carried them, she wouldn't be able to find out for sure until she saw Scott again. So until that happened, she puttered about, going through the motions of covering the news and praying that nothing happened to Scott.